Category: Prosaic Petals

The most sacred of secrets are those that cannot be told not because they’re supposed to be hidden, but because they can only be felt, exchanged through a shared experienced, dreamt of when we are deep in our sleep, recalled alone in a movie in our minds.

These secrets are the ones shared by lovers, with whom we intimately share our bodies with. I mean, you can use all the similes and metaphors and all there is to confess to your BFF how it went down but that’s just how far it goes; in the end, you’re the only one who knows everything.

If this sort of secret were a heinous crime tried in court, it’s not being the star witness to it; it’s not even enough being the true motivation of the perpetrator; it is being the trauma of the victim. Everyone else is simply one who has read the headline on the newspaper.

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You looked big and awkward in my hand. Anyway, there I was, perched in that sultry cross-legged angle with you inside my mouth. I blew you, and I was amazed by the way your flavor touched my tongue and my throat, the way you grew warmer and warmer as I went on, sipping you, sucking you, getting all of you. And as per usual with this kind of tryst, we finished with you all drained out of juice, while nothing really came out of me.

That’s the problem with you. You’re a robot’s dong. You’re hard and huge and all that, but you had no fucking sensuality, no romance, no drama, no cure for the wet smoker that I was. Maybe this was a mistake. I did this because you were cleaner, more professional, more socially acceptable. Marlboro – he was a bad bad boy, and for sure it seemed like it’s him and me against the world because there were times I had to take him far from the eyes of the world, but he was real, and he was a better lover. He bent when I would bite him with that lust to breathe him in and he laughed out this fire and smoke he only could make. I thought about that and… if you’re this woman that I am, who would you choose? I loved Marlboro because I loved him. There was a passion, a drive, a madness. Marlboro talked dirty. Also, he didn’t mind when my lipstick marked him forever, or when my teeth gave him scars. He kept souvenirs like that. Sensitive, sentimental, sexy. Dangerous, at best. And I liked that, because ain’t love risque and risk, peek and peak and pique? What’s loving a man but a habit that sometimes hurt?

I felt like a hypocrite when no matter how much I try to build you up according to my preferences, you’re still not it. Marlboro had his own musky scent and I longed for him in that manner, while, well, look at you, you’re all masked with your various fragrances but that’s simply not you. Believe me, I tried, like what good girls ought to do.

Sometimes I wondered if I only must to learn to love you, Vape, because by all standards you were supposed to be the right one. But I couldn’t feel you, and I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ll stop crossing my legs. I do not need this to turn you on.

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There are flavors and shadows understood better the longer I indulge in loving you.

I love you. I want you. I become you.

This is an unbranded romance that only you and I know. This is the kind of love that a pragmatist will not dare, that an idealist will misunderstand, that a realist will mistake for the unreal.

I can lick your shoes and kiss your toes and kneel down in front of you. Let the feminists be confused. Let society be confused. Let me be called arrogant, or let me be called a martyr. But this here is my signature. You and I are equal. You are my man, and I am your woman. You are my king, and I am your queen. You are Adam, I am Eve. We are masters of each other, and slaves of each other. I reign, and I serve. I worship, as I am worshipped. This is the kind of surrender that is triumphant, a dominance that is submissive, a humble pride. This is the kind of love not governed by need, but by want, by passion. We are regal by ourselves. And as you are to me, I am a proud woman, and I want to share myself with you, my best and my most royal, my summit and peak. I will certainly spoil you of that.

This perhaps is the cusp of acceptance. This perhaps is the summit of chemistry. This is the height of faithfulness and commitment. If not, then let me, let us become more, become our golden best. I want your marvel and your horror. I want the divine in you and the devil in you. I want you shallow and I want you deep. I want your low as I want your high. I want you beautiful and I want you ugly. I want your pleasure and your pain. I want your health and disease. I want your good and your evil. I want your right and your wrong. I want all of you. I want to experience every facet of you, the way we know each other from head to toe. I love you whether we are blissful or angry. I love you whether it’s sunny or stormy. I love you whether we are golden or burnt. This here is something that transcends emotions, something that surpasses its extremes. This here is my penchant for you and only for you. This is how powerful my faith and my gift to you is. There is no other who can be as beautiful and as perfect as the god and monster that you are. I will certainly be yours for better and for worse. I am a poet, and no, it is not the heart nor the moon nor the stars. It is my soul that you capture, that I give you and bring you, and all that I can be. Let my love for you be like time in a String Theory, Relativity kind of physics. It bends, it is endless, it is fluid, it transcends distance and time – eternal.

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The drink driver raised the pitcher filled with the science of fermentation, then shared the love to the world he has with his buddies. They finished their shots by the speed of light, watching the backdrop, talking about life’s toilet treasures, letting out all-out chuckles.

The other clique did the same but with their backs against their monoblock chairs, their drinking speed not of light but only of sound, their intercourse not of crap but of oxygen, their poison in smaller doses but of titanic proportions in quantity.

There were, of course, forever-alone memed drunkards, the kind who carry both mystery and stigma.

My own circle is a cycle of spontaneous intrigues of brain, heart, spirit, and flesh, without a fuck overanalyzing, middle-fingering society, flipping both sides of the coin, like everyone yearns and does.

In the dimension of alcohol, sometimes its warning whispers. Most times, you won’t see it coming.

Say hello, again, to the perfect excuse for wanton freedom and unforgettable forgettables, the alternate world of half-assed hungry eyes and insupressable, untampered laughter and cries that would either speak of the overwhelming or the numbing.

It is a want for both passion and indifference, a need to scream in liquid and cater to the health and sickness of overindulgence.

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The barista came without a word but with a smile, and gingerly placed the steaming cup of coffee creation in the man’s table.

The man, perhaps in his late forties, blindly reaches for the java elixir and transferred it to his right. He lit a Fortune, took a long drag, and gazed at nothing. He then stirred his drink, sipped, then brought the cancer stick back to his lips and let out a cloud of secondhand harmful gases as everyone else in the coffee shop did.

Everyone else, who consisted of a pair of girl friends, a father and his daughter, a posse of hipsters, a collection of suit-types, and a trio of white-haired folks – they were all confined in their personal bubbles bordered by their chosen spots, indifferent.

Different tables, different worlds, light years away, same galaxy. It’s a hodgepodge of personalities laid back to make room for caffeinated conversations.

The forty-ish man, on the other hand, remained mute in his thoughts, a loner in the midst of a hive of subdued hyperactivity. As the bees went on with their honeys, he took one last puff from his dying Fortune, extinguished it, gulped the abyss of his coffee, stood and left.

I watched him walk out of Coffee Station, wondering about his silent soliloquy and observation, wondering if he did gaze at nothing or at everything, if he left because he was alone, if he needed to be somewhere else, if there is nothing here to look at except for the bean-fueled non-spectacle, if he saw that this is where you catch people in their vulnerable best, usually in the comfort of the impenetrable vacuum of time when the cup touches one’s lips and the flavor kisses one’s tongue, because the coffee experience is personal, because coffee discourses are meant to be cool and calm, because coffee is not meant to be rushed, because coffee breaks are a leisure, because there are people who cannot live without coffee, because —

I stopped the tracks of my pen, and looked at the ice cubes melting in my mocha in which a sea of transparency has formed between coffee and ice, like oil on water, glanced at my cauterized Marlboro Menthol, and knew that my conquest was lost. I put a fresh stick unto my mouth, wiggled my stirrer, took a noisy sip while I gazed at nothing.

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It’s amusing how we are so minute in this vast expanse of light, darkness, space, and who-knows-what-is-out-there, and yet, we are capable of affecting a planet 12,756 kilometers in diameter. There is strength in numbers, as they say, and we are more than seven billion to date. I am not one to question that – we all have seen mankind build and destroy in equally epic proportions since the dawn of time. But what are we here for? What keeps our species going? Do we all have a uniform purpose?

Of all biological creatures in existence, this race, my own, perplexes me because while the great unknown is reserved only for the expiration of these short lives we very much cling to, we are ruthless in the pursuit for the trivial and mundane, blown up for maximum effect.

The Fermi Paradox explains that while we remain hopeful in the comfort of Drake’s Equation, we cannot communicate with intelligent life elsewhere because intelligent life tend to disappear quickly as it would eventually devour itself. Ergo, hypothetically, mankind will destroy itself, so it goes.

It is a theory, yes. But may the deities help those who do not see that we are indeed our own demise. Which brings back the question, what do we make of our existence? Where is it going? What are we now? What does this mean when we were the only ones blessed with the curse of having rational brains, cluttered with irrational emotions, with a relative concept of morality, and therefore be the only animals who can truly be baneful?

Ah, but man’s history is one thread of life, packed with games of chance and of non-sequiturs. Some mysteries will always remain so, all mistakes will be inevitable but are significant and sufficient to give birth to the uncertain future, which we do not hold but are responsible of.

What we only have is the present, who we are, and what we become to each other. I am going to take hold of it and just be. Life begins every second, we as phoenixes, perhaps with a finite number of rebirths. I don’t know, I have more questions than answers, but I’m taking the risk. I will play both Truth and Dare. Maybe there aren’t winners nor losers. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

What matters to me is now. I have always been equally curious and scared of the future. Not of the certainty of the tale of Thanatos, it is only but a cliche and a transition, but for the very thing that makes us survive as a species, because it is now here in me, with me, in my flesh and bones and skin and soul and viscera: the gift of Eros; the thing left in Pandora’s box; the signature of the doves; the language of the sun; faith.

Perhaps I found you by a kiss of luck, a concept I cannot say I believe in. Perhaps fate has something to do with this, or the gods, for which i can say the same thing. Perhaps it’s only a wave of coincidence and the untouched order of the unfolding of events of all matter.

Perhaps.

But let’s indulge in the rarity of this understatement of a term called love, for with this I’m sure and in this I believe, and you alone will share this arcane knowledge with me.

I will hold your hand and walk through this with you, always, as many lifetimes as it would take, as far as our existence would allow, in and beyond our stream of consciousness or absence thereof.

Let me say this, again and again, until you tire of it, as these words are never enough for me to show you the height and depth of who you are to me: